Woman of Snow and Sand
by kittehstalker
Summary: Rune is struggling with the bad luck that plagues the Thieves Guild when he meets the lovely Dylarin, named after an old legend. Dark and mysterious, her story draws him in until he finds himself entangled.
1. The Dark Lady

NOTE: I have absolutely no claim to the beauty that is Skyrim, I just like to appreciate her loveliness by writing creatively. I'll have to see how lewd I get with this writing… I guess it'll depend on how many people read and your response. Enjoy!

**The Dark Lady**

Rune reclined lazily, sunlight streaming down and filling the marketplace with pleasant warmth. He watched lethargically as the good people of Riften went about their business, purchasing, bartering, arguing and gossiping. He snorted dismissively, finding the prospect of a lawful life unexciting. He stretched his long limbs gracefully and finished off his sweetroll, then turned to observe Brynjolf lie blatantly about his newest miracle concoction, a tawny potion that glowed luminescent in green bottles and seemed, in appearance, to be Falmer blood. In truth, it was a mixture of cheap liquor similar to boot polish and copper filings created in a night of drunken revelry. Rune was doubtful of its properties of granting you the ability to be invincible or make love like a sabre cat, but it didn't stop a tiny Bosmer man from squeaking excitedly and purchasing five bottles.

"_Yes, that one needs all the help he needs in the bedroom." _Rune thought wryly as he noticed the elf's stout wife eying every other male in the marketplace. People were silly.

Or perhaps not as silly as he thought. Although much of the crowd watching Brynjolf's demonstration had seemed very enthusiastic at his product, Rune could see the slight frown on his face as the crowd dispersed and knew that today's sales had been less than the day before. He sighed. An intelligent but simple man, Rune did not think of much else of how to relieve someone else of their valuables and then how to spend what he got. With the poor haul the guild had been receiving lately, though, he began to seriously consider the wild rumours about a curse. For months their luck had been declining with both outright theft and more underhanded dishonesty like the Falmer blood.

Rune could only dwell on such deep thoughts for a short time, though, and he was quickly roused from them by the sight of the sun sagging slightly in the sky. It was past noon, and time for him to earn his keep.

Innately talented and well trained, it only took the thief a few moments to decide upon his target. A young cloaked woman wandered inconspicuously amongst the throng of people, seeming as if she did not belong but was comfortable all the same. She would be a difficult dip, with her quick hands and feet and the intelligent way she engaged no conversation and conflict, but worth it. The hood that covered her hair and obscured her face also betrayed some caution on her part. Her simple and well-made clothes and dagger betrayed that she had more wealth than she lead others to believe. She seemed to be a merchant's wife or daughter, and more richly loaded than the fools who bumped against her and griped about dragon attacks.

Flexing his fingers lightly, Rune easily got to his feet and vanished into the crowd. Technically everyone could see him, but his skills were good enough that none would look twice or remember him later. As he always did, he made sure there was a disreputable person of sorts near the woman before he inconspicuously strolled behind her in preparation for the dip. On the off chance that the woman noticed the lightness of her purse while Rune was still nearby, the blame would fall upon the scapegoat. In this case, he had an infallible choice; a local drunk who would be suspected to stoop to whatever means for gold.

Skin tingling with anticipation, Rune smoothly slipped his fingers into her purse, feeling the lovely smoothness of the coins.

Then, abruptly, he felt a far less pleasant touch on his hand. The cold tip of a dagger pricked his skin and sent warm trickle of blood drip off his fingers and onto the gold. His instincts forced him to keep walking, matching the woman's pace as she glanced at him in a friendly way.

"So," she inquired in a pleasant undertone, not drawing anybody's attention. "How much stolen gold is your smallest finger worth?"

He felt the sharpness of her blade transfer to his pinkie, punctuating her threat. Coldness gripped his chest and constricted his breath, and his brain began to calculate the bribe required to keep all his fingers and not get put in prison. Unfortunately, his mouth recovered first.

"How about a few drinks at the inn?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Rune cringed in horror and embarrassment. He'd spend far too much time seducing women! She wasn't some wench to be bought off with a few drinks of mead and spend the night with, he was bargaining for his safety! He swallowed hard and berated himself for getting into such a mess in an incredibly idiotic manner.

She gave him a long, incredulous look, obviously as shocked by his nerve as he was. Then, unexpectedly, her dagger disappeared and Rune heard the sound of it being sheathed. She offered him a broad smile.

"You are an odd one, thief. Lead the way to the nearest mead." This caused Rune to raise an eyebrow in amusement. He took her arm amiably and began leading her to the Bee and Barb.

"A lovely lady such as yourself drinks mead like the common folk?" he teased, his voice warm as he recognized a fellow mischief-lover. Now that the danger had passed and he was seemingly in the woman's good graces, he could appreciate her as more than a means to wealth. He raked her eyes over her appraisingly, and she raised an eyebrow of her own and pretended to be offended.

"Now, good sir, I am no common wench to be won over by your flattery!" she proclaimed, her tone teasing and her face alighting with a smile. Rune suddenly wished that her hood was not up and he could clearly see her face. He was surprised when she abruptly halted, and realized that they had arrived at the inn. Like a gentleman, he opened the door for her with a gallant bow, causing an unexpected look of sorrow to flash across her face. She quietly thanked him and they settled at a table inside.

After ordering mead for him and his mysterious companion, Rune loosened his joints and stretched his hands, as was his habit. With a wince, he remembered the cut sustained from his foiled pickpocket attempt. He looked down at his bloody finger ruefully and heard the woman chuckle. Her shadowed eyes seemed to dance with merriment at the regretful look on his face.

"How often is it that you fail at… what you do?" her tone was teasing, but also curious. Surprised at her interest, Rune looked at her deeply, then sighed and scratched his head.

"Very rarely. I have to say, you gave me quite a fright, mistress." Her brow furrowed contemplatively, and Rune found himself once again frustrated by the hood that concealed her features. Noticing his irritation, she smiled slightly and pulled back her hood. Rune drew in a breath softly. She was young, no older than twenty-five, and full or mostly Nord. Her features were uncommonly pretty, with a broad, full mouth, straight nose and exotic eyes. They were slanted and a bright blue-green, lending her a predatory and almost Elf or Khajiit look. She was uncommonly tanned, and her fair hair was bleached from sunlight. The pair regarded each other silently as the woman also sized up Rune's dark, expressive eyes, crooked smile and lean face. Suddenly, she leaned forward, her gaze searching. Rune looked at her inquiringly, but she just sighed in a sad way and settled back into her chair. After taking a long drink of mead, she addressed him again.

"Forgive me if I seem solemn or distant. I have not met someone I trusted for several years. I am waiting to be betrayed or find a reason to distrust you." With considerable effort, she smiled again. "My name is Dylarin."

"You go years without trusting anyone, and the first person you decide to befriend is someone who tries to pickpocket you?" In his confusion, Rune was painfully blunt. Frowning, he then processed her second remark. "Wait… Dylarin? The bright-tongue?" Dylarin's face registered surprise at his connection.

"You know the story?"

"I do. It was always my favourite as a boy, told from an old bard drinking the last of his days away." Suddenly realizing his error, Rune smacked himself in the forehead and Dylarin jumped, surprised at the violent gesture. "Forgive me, Dylarin. I'm Rune. It's lovely to meet you." She chuckled at his afterthought introduction and shook his hand formally. The silence stretched between them, and Rune cleared his throat, intent on getting to know his new friend.

"Your mother must have been quite the romantic to name you after the accursed bard from such a tale."

"I wouldn't know why my mother named me the way I did." Grief clouded her blue eyes and her lips twisted painfully. "I imagine you know the pain of being parentless as well." Trailing his finger through a spilled drop on the table, he nodded slowly.

"I've no recollection of my family. I was found by a fisherman, and spent my childhood gutting salmon and baiting lines." Realizing the bitterness in his voice, he shook his head impatiently. "I'm not ungrateful. I was lucky. My da was a good man, and he taught me how to deliver a mean right hook." She snorted.

"A very necessary skill," she said sombrely. Dancing shadows from the cook fire reflected in her eyes, and Rune smiled softly.

"He died two springs ago. 'Twas the rockjoint." He toyed with his tankard, remembering. "I visited there every winter, but he hid the illness from me… After I left, he couldn't take care of himself." Uttering a low oath, Rune drained his mead and scowled into the fire. "Stubborn old man."

"It seems we both awaken painful memories in each other." Rune nodded absently at her observation and suddenly roused himself.

"Well, we musn't talk of such gloomy things then. Tell me, Dylarin, how did you come to be in such an unfortunate and prolonged meeting with the sun? Not freezing to death atop in the cold Skyrim winds is poor for your health, you know." His attempt to dispel the gloominess was successful, and she let out a musical laugh. _Bright-tongue indeed, _Rune thought.

"You are correct. I didn't earn these abominable freckles in this lovely wasteland." Rune peered closely at her face and was pleasantly surprised that she did have freckles. They were adorable.

"I've been in Elswyr these past seven years." She explained. "It's wonderful there, by the way. I needn't wear gloves at the height of summer or protect myself from petty thieves on my first day in town." Those blue-green eyes twinkled mischievously, and Rune found himself warming to their light.

"Damned thieves. You can never trust them, make no mistake!" His announcement was so loud that an inebriated man the next table over raised his mug and shouted "hear, hear!" Rune and Dylarin collapsed in giggles as they received strange looks from the more sober people in the room.

"I think you and I are destined to plague Riften with our bad manners." Rune's heartbeat skipped at 'you and I' and he met her gaze fully. Her playful grin melted and softness came over her face. She leaned forward slightly…

A hand clamped down on her shoulder ominously, and her head whipped around to observe the man standing over her. Tall and pleasant-faced with red hair and blue merchant's clothes, he looked like a respectable Nord but for the stark warning in his grey eyes. He squeezed her shoulder ominously.

"Don't think just because he's a charming young lad that he'll play whatever little game you devise, lass." The agreeable tone of his voice closely veiled a threat and his gaze was stony and unflinching on her. He leaned in by her ear so his words breathed quietly in her ear. "You may be new here, but know that our organization is not to be trifled with. You should forget what happened with my friend and be about your business."

Rune seemed to quickly grasp the general idea of what the man was saying, because he quickly rose to grip the man's arm.

"Brynjolf, no, she is a friend. We were just having a drink. She did not mind my little… indiscretion." Brynjolf regarded Dylarin suspiciously and pulled up a chair.

"I've always got a mind for a drink," he said amiably, appraising the strange woman. She was pretty enough, he decided. But trustworthy?

"Brynjolf, this secretive woman is Dylarin. Dylarin, Brynjolf." The two regarded each other across the table, and shadows played across their faces. Looking searchingly, Brynjolf observed the keenness in her eyes with a jolt. Secretive indeed.


	2. Hurting Past

NOTE: Sorry I took forever publishing the second chapter, I've been on a cruise! In this chapter I'll be implementing some big differences from what happens in the game. I hope you'll enjoy nonetheless. Don't hesitate to critique!

**Hurting Past**

Rune interrupted Brynjolf's long stare by clearing his throat. The redheaded thief shook himself and turned towards his comrade. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and thinking. Noticing the way Rune's eyes often strayed to Dylarin, Brynjolf grinned.

"You certainly have excellent taste in targets, Rune. I trust your choice was not purely unbiased?" Brynjolf ran his eyes over their new friend and smiled appreciatively. "An exotic guest to warm your bed?" Dylarin watched in fascination as a delicate blush coloured Rune's face. Then, realizing the implications of what Brynjolf had said, her own face paled and fear rooted in her chest.

"She looked ripe for the picking," Rune joked. Smiling at the innuendo, the two thieves turned to regard Dylarin and were shocked at the look on her face.

"By Talos, woman, what's wrong?" Brynjolf's voice was sharp with worry. His brows knit over his eyes in confusion at her sudden transformation from charming young woman to a terrified rabbit confronted by a wolf. Huge with terror, her eyes darted between the two men and her body trembled. Glancing at Brynjolf with a panicked expression, Rune leaned forward to take her hand. She whipped her arm away like a snake, shoving her chair back a foot in her desperation to escape.

"Dylarin, did we say something? We don't mean you any harm." Rune's voice was soft with bewilderment and hurt, but her expression did not relax.

"I… I'm sorry," she rasped, her voice low and unsteady. "I have to leave." She rose from her chair in a swift movement and very quickly walked out, her shoulders hunched. The door banged shut violently behind her.

Shocked beyond speech, Rune and Brynjolf just stared after her. Brynjolf turned back towards the table after a few moments and frowned into his mead. For a few moments, Rune sat unsure, wondering whether he should follow her. His chest constricted at the thought of another rejection and he settled back into his chair. Brynjolf watched his friend's face cycle between grief, confusion and guilt before settling into a mask of indifference. The large Nord sighed. For a thief, emotion was foolish, but it still hurt to watch his young friend suppress what he felt. He shrugged it off, knowing that becoming attached was only a liability. He could help with Rune's confusion, though.

"It is not your fault, my friend. Some women… become afraid of a man's advances." Brynjolf shifted uncomfortably, noticing the thief's blank look. "From abuse, lad."

"I know it well enough," Rune whispered. "I've seen the women, the wives, who flinch from the gesture or touch of a man. The ones who can no longer trust." He stared into his mug. "I just… didn't realize someone like her could undergo such things." His mask dissipated to reveal his sorrow.

"You mean you thought her too powerful to be attacked?"

"No." Rune finally met his eyes, and Brynjolf winced at his pain. "I just don't know how a man could do such a thing to someone like her. Well, to anyone, I suppose, but… especially her." His voice trailed off softly.

"She made quite an effect on you." Brynjolf's eyes were unreadable.

"Ay. That she did." With a sigh, Rune tossed a few coins on the table and stood. "Let's walk."

They strolled along the marketplace easily, avoiding the bustle of the crowd around them. Brynjolf, a natural thief, picked out future pickpocket targets. Rune just watched, his mind wandering as he observed the bored guards and cowed beggars. A woman with bruises on her wrists not quite covered by her sleeves walked by furtively, her gaze planted on the ground on her way home. A fisherman with corded arm muscles and a red face, presumably her husband, met with her outside of a rough drinking den and snarled something in her ear. Rune took in a shuddering breath.

"Brynjolf. You once told me your mother was beaten by your father…" Rune looked at him inquiringly.

"That she was," his friend said bitterly. "My da was meaner than a bear when the skooma was in his blood." He shrugged and eyed his friend. "What about it?"

"Did she ever… recover? Learn to trust again?" Brynjolf snorted and shook his head.

"No, lad. She did not. Became a mousy little woman, jumping at shadows. The healer said she died of a heart attack." Stricken, Rune hung his head solemnly and tried to suppress his sorrow. "Then again," Brynjolf interjected, "she was never the most… resilient person I've ever met. Dylarin is stronger than her." Rune did not contest what he said. They had only just met her, but they had both noticed something different about her; a strange brightness that went beyond her appearance. The pair went silent again and continued on their way.

"_Dylarin is a mystery to me," _Rune thought to himself. "_But a thief is a master of mystery."_

Hours later, when the last sliver of sun had disappeared, Brynjolf sat at a table in the Ragged Flagon. Replaying his meeting with Dylarin over and over in his head, he scowled in frustration. Women were impossible. He understood the fear that had caused her to abruptly leave, but he could discern nothing else about her. She was fascinating and drew him in but he wondered what kind of story the woman had to tell. Something in her luminous eyes made him curious.

"Brooding does not suit you." The voice, teasing and husky, would normally have been a very effective distraction from whatever troubled him. Unfortunately, the thought of Dylarin made flirtations with Vex less appealing.

"I do not brood. I'm just thinking." Surprised at his sullen mood, Vex pulled up a chair and studied him from across the table.

"You're moody. What happened?" Brynjolf frowned impatiently.

"Just some girl I met. She is odd." Vex let out a hoot of laughter and Brynjolf's scowl deepened. "What is wrong with you, woman?"

"I haven't seen you moping over 'some girl' in quite a long time, Bryn. She must be a feisty one to catch your attention." Brynjolf growled, causing the blond thief to draw back quickly.

"She is not like that. She is… different." Vex looked at him questioningly and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Rune tried to pickpocket her, but she found him out right away. Didn't go to the guards, though, just talked it out with him." Vex raised a finger and an ale appeared in front of her. She sipped thoughtfully.

"A thief as well?"

"I don't think so. She didn't look shady, just smart. Maybe a merchant or some tradesman's daughter." Vex shrugged.

"Unusual, I suppose, but not a threat. Why the frown?" Brynjolf _was_ frowning, his eyes stormy. He stood abruptly.

"I don't understand her." With that, he walked through the back door and into the thief's den.

Meanwhile, far from Riften, a young Nord man knelt before the Jarl of Whiterun. Blood was spattered across his armour and matted in his fair hair and crimson war paint was smeared across his face, but the people of the court looked at him in awe. Beckoning towards the battle-worn man, the Jarl presented him with a powerfully enchanted Dwarven axe.

"The Axe of Whiterun. Care for it well, Vaanerik of Markarth, and ensure that it is bathed in dragon blood." Awed, Vaanerik reached forward to receive the weapon. He hefted it in his hand to observe its feel and grinned. The Jarl smiled as he observed him.

"_He is perfect," _Balgruf thought to himself. "_Noble, courageous, fearsome in battle… He shall restore the peace."_ He rose to stand beside Vaanerik, his own impressive height still not meeting the other man's. "Your father will be very pleased that his suspicions were confirmed. As I imagine you are."

Vaanerik met his gaze steadily, and the Jarl looked at him closely. He was glad to see the fear that he tried to hide. It would help keep him alive. A light glowed in his blue eyes. Jarl Balgruf was not a spiritual man by any means, but he was struck with a sudden premonition as he stood there. This man would succeed where countless others had failed. He was bright and strong enough to. The fire of the dragons was imbedded in his mind and body and flowed in his blood.

He was Dovakiin… Dragonborn!


	3. Turmoil

NOTE: Just realized I've been spelling Elsweyr wrong… Apologies! Sorry if I'm sluggish writing for the next two or so weeks, I've got exams. After that, though, I am free from my online course!

**Turmoil**

The grass brushed gently against Dylarin's crouching body. She shivered at the cold touch of the wind and burrowed her face against the rough wool of her hood. Riften was warmer than most of Skyrim, but with the bleak mountains surrounding her and the rising sun blotted out by clouds, she longed for the hot sands of Elsweyr. Going over her conversation with Rune and Brynjolf in her head, she sighed impatiently and stole away into the woods.

Her blood chilled every time she thought of what Brynjolf had said. _An exotic guest to warm your bed. _She had heard something very similar before. How could she have allowed herself to trust two strange men? That had been her mother's downfall. She could see the foul face of that red khajiit before her and she swiped at it uselessly to dispel it. Was it Rune who had awakened these memories in her?

She laughed mirthlessly at that. No, it was this miserable place and everything it harboured. Skyrim could be swallowed into the darkness of Oblivion for all she cared.

She had spent the night sleeping on a rocky formation near the city. It was too cold out and the great boulder wasn't high enough to be one of the massive cliffs of Elsweyr, but it was as close to home as she could get in this curst place. Everything here was wrong.

"Damn poisonous spiders the size of wolfhounds, damn idiotic racist Nords, damn _fucking _dragons for some reason." Hissing in irritation, she leaned up against a tree, her ears sharp for any animal sounds even while she brooded. Agitated, she ran her fingers over the wood of her bow. She'd needed her weapon more than ever since coming here. A stroll across a field would mean fighting a bear or a handful of wolves. A wrong word to someone could mean they despised you forever. Just last week, curiosity about the politics of Skyrim had earned her a nice black eye from Thalmor agents escorting a prisoner along the road. The people and the land were hostile and angry. There was nothing for her here.

"Why did I come back?" the shivering aspens and stifling cold muffled her words, but to Dylarin they seemed to echo endlessly. Endlessly because ever since the Gods-cursed hour she'd set foot in Skyrim she'd been asking herself the same question. She hated the Nord in her. She hated everything about this place. The people could have been carved out of the mountains, they were so unfeeling and unchanging. Everything was tradition and honour. You were judged on your race or whether you wore Stormcloak or Imperial armour. _Fuck them all._

A crackle to her left made her head whip around. There, a deer, munching leaves serenely. Her feet were silent on the dry grass as she crept forward, her brown cloak disguising her shape against the ground. She moved more quietly than any other Nord woman could. Silent and invisible, she was soon close enough that she could jump and tackle the deer if she wanted to.

Her muscles tensed with anticipation. With a smooth, silent movement she pulled an arrow from its sheath and fitted it in her bow. The deer would never know how it died. She released the string and the arrow buried itself in the animal's throat.

Hunting was not politics or tradition or honour. It was the rustle of trees and an arrow in a deer's neck and blood on her face.

She wiped her face off slowly with a leather-gloved hand and tasted the hot blood gingerly. This was who she was. Her bow in her hand and the taste of a fresh kill on her lips. She could not go home any more than she could have avoided the way she had felt the ice and snow calling to her from Elsweyr. But this was enough.

Meanwhile in Riften, Rune twirled his dagger on his finger, deep in thought. His adoptive father had been the best knife fighter in the Ratway and earned a good bit fighting in the Flagon before being hauled in by the guards. When they gave him a choice between the cages or the army he'd immediately enlisted and turned his life around. By the time he found Rune and took him in, he was no longer serving for the Imperials but maintained his respect for the law. Then, when Rune had been a teenager who got into an extraordinary amount of trouble, he couldn't deny the usefulness of knowing how to use a pair of daggers. He'd taught Rune everything he knew.

"_Only sweet Mara knows how many times that's saved my life." _After Dylarin's flight from the inn and his talk with Brynjolf, he'd tried to shake his solemn mood by sweeping a noble's house. The plan had proved foolish; he was so distracted by the bright eyes in his mind that he forgot to check for guards looking his way before he crept out the window. He was very lucky that the guards had been switching shifts. Even the thought of all the pretty baubles he'd snagged from the house didn't clear his mind. Rune growled and headed into the cistern, knowing full well that if he didn't dispel this mood it might cost him a lecture from Mercer or a run-in with the guards.

And sooner than he thought, it turned out. Mercer stood at the entrance to the cistern, his arms crossed and his eyes snapping fiercely. Expert thief he may have been, but Mercer was not subtle. Rune flexed his fingers nervously and felt his heart skip uncomfortably. The iron fist of the Thieves' Guild, Mercer was the only one who could make Rune feel like a child running from bullies again. He had a strong respect for the gruff Breton. Nevertheless, he inspired an icy fear in Rune that made him guilty even when he wasn't. Seeing him stand there with feigned calm was worse than usual because he had made a mistake. Was he wrong? Had someone seen him last night?

"A word, Rune," his voice was pleasant with an exceptionally unpleasant undertone. Rune followed him fearfully. Vex gave him a sympathetic look as he walked into a side room, but her face was quickly obscured by the slamming door. Rune clenched his twitching fingers and turned, braced for anything Mercer might say to him.

But he was completely unprepared when a hand struck him forcefully on the side of his head, making his skull throb and his vision blur temporarily. Cringing, he brought his hands in front of his face for protection, but Mercer knocked them aside and hit him again.

"Did you think I would not find out?" His voice was like splintering ice. "I never took you for a simpleton, boy, but I was obviously mistaken." He grabbed Rune by his shoulder-length hair and yanked violently. Letting out a yelp, Rune scrabbled at Mercer's hands with his nails until he released him. Rune stumbled away, clutching his aching head.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, wincing at the bright spots in his vision. "It won't happen again."

"You're _damn fucking right _it won't happen again!" His face red with rage, Mercer drove his fist into Rune's stomach and he bucked over with a choked gasp. Rune looked up to see his fist descending on him again and huddled in defeat.

"Mercer, enough."

Brynjolf's voice rumbled dangerously in his deep chest. His large form blocked the door as he loomed over Mercer.

Mercer paled visibly but didn't back down. "He was almost caught last night. I saw it myself." The Breton eyed Rune with disgust. "You should have seen him, Brynjolf. I know you think of him as your precious baby brother, but he was careless."

"As we have all been, at some point." Brynjolf's face was impassive but Rune could see the faint shaking of his balled fists. He opened his mouth, hoping to somehow diffuse the situation, only to retch violently and moan in pain. Brynjolf growled low in his throat.

"Whatever you think, Mercer, this is not the way to solve the problem. You have gone too far." Moving with surprising gentleness for his strength, the large thief helped Rune to his feet and supported him under his arms. "I don't know what you have against Rune but I want you to drop it. He's a good friend, and loyal."

"Good, loyal friends do not bring me gold!"

Brynjolf's eyes filled with distaste. "He got the job done. He's not in jail. Leave him alone or I will personally lay double his wounds on your hide." He left Mercer standing there, his face white with rage and his drawn back in a feral snarl.

As he led Rune away, Brynjolf leaned over to murmur to him. "Let's get you to a bed, friend."

Hours later, Rune lay on his bed and let his thoughts about Dylarin run wild. They helped distract his from the pain of his bruises and head and he had nothing better to do. The cistern was empty except for him and the only people in the Flagon were Vekel and Tonilia. Brynjolf was out in the marketplace, and Mercer had barged out in a fit of rage. Grumbling from boredom, Rune flexed his hands and wondered what Dylarin's skin felt like. It was probably soft, and warm like her smile. Her hair was a lovely colour.

Snarling, he got up abruptly and made his way to the practice room. He could always use practice picking locks. He worked at the locks with as much concentration as he could muster, but his thoughts kept drifting and he kept breaking the picks. Fumbling, another one snapped in his hands.

"Fucking gods-cursed skeever-infested piece of _shit!"_ An unexpected chuckle made him look behind him to see Tonilia regarding him with amusement.

"I've never seen you this clumsy. Something troubling you?" Her tone was gentle and teasing. Other than Brynjolf, Tonilia was the most friendly to him out of the Guild. Being younger than her, Rune suspected she regarded him as a kind of son. She'd been the most supportive after his father died.

"Why are you bothering me, wench?" His tone was low and snarling but she just laughed again, accustomed to his foul moods.

"My, we _are _in a bad mood today. I've something that will cheer you up; there's a young golden thing looking for you in the Flagon. You're making friends all over." Dylarin just stared up at her, disbelieving.

"Dylarin?"

"Lovely name for a lovely girl. I'm glad you've learned taste, my boy." She hauled him up and brushed off his shoulders. "You really should comb your hair sometimes. Especially if you're going to start chasing after girls." Licking the tip of her thumb, she rubbed at a bit of dirt on his forehead and he winced at the flare of pain in his skull. Frowning, she stepped closer and pushed his hair aside to reveal the bruise on his temple. "Where did you get this?"

Thankfully, Rune's mind worked fast for an excuse. "Combat practice. Brynjolf was showing me something new." He could see that it hadn't quelled the suspicion in her eyes, but she let it go.

"Off you go then. Be polite." He gave her a quick hug and rushed away, straightening his clothes. Tonilia frowned after him and touched a fading bruise on her wrist. Was it coincidence?


	4. Plans

NOTE: Wooh, we're getting to know everyone! I hope you're enjoying yourselves so far because I have a lot planned! If there's any True Blood fans out there, you might notice that I've based Vaanerik off the real Eric. Also, because the text gets all scrunched together when I upload I'm going to try using lines to break stuff up.

**Hero**

Vaanerik ran his fingers over the smooth metal of the bathtub and revelled in the feeling of the steam against his face. Baths were a luxury only available to the very wealthy, as several servants needed to be employed to heat up enough water to fill up a bath. Whiterun was known for its hospitality towards rich guests, which meant the guest chambers in Dragonsreach were all equipped with bathtubs.

Vaanerik, or Erik as he was known by his few friends, had been treated to several baths until recently. His father, Valakur, had previously been very wealthy due to his involvement in silver mining in Markarth with the Silver-Blood family. A staunch supporter of the Stormcloaks, however, Valakur had fallen out of favour and lost a lot of business when Ulfric killed the High King and there was a sudden increase in support for the Imperials. Lately there had not been enough money to spend on a full staff of servants or importing Valakur's favourite wine from Skingrad.

Which was why Erik's heart was heavy in his chest as he removed his clothing and sank into the bathwater. His father was relying on him as Dragonborn to restore his favour with the Jarls and earn the family wealth back. Valakur had planned the family's ascent since before his son was born. Foreseeing the potential political and economic advantages, Valakur had started wooing Sonya as soon as he discovered that she was one of two people left in a long line of Dragonborn. Their marriage, while tenuous, had resulted in the birth of Vaanerik after several years of hoping for a child.

It soon became apparent that Vaanerik was even more important than anyone thought when Sonya died after contracting bone break fever from a bear encounter. Things became more urgent still when Senneth, Sonya's brother, bled out in a hunting accident. Vaanerik became the only person left with dragon blood and Valakur employed the best from across Cyrodill to protect and train his only child.

Erik scowled into the bathwater as he thought of the mockery that was his childhood. His playmates had been free to gallop around outside catching bugs and scraping their knees, but he had been barricaded in his home learning court manners and how to handle a sword. The knowledge was certainly useful once it was discovered that he did indeed have the Voice, but he resented what had been taken away by his heritage.

Knowing that pouting was useless, Erik shook his head and began to scrub the blood and grime from his body. As soon as Valakur had heard word about the dragon's destruction of Helgen, he had gone with his son at full speed to Dragonsreach to seek audience with the Jarl. The ride had put his combat skills to the test for the first time when they encountered a large group of Forsworn camped in the canyons by the road. Erik had fought with both courage and skill, killing his first human and several more. His skin itched with guilt and disgust as he recalled the admiration in the eyes of his riding partners, and he scrubbed it harshly with soap.

Sighing, Erik rose from the bath and studied himself in the full-length mirror. Clean, he could see the muscles that training had developed on his abdomen and arms. He was also handsome, with the strong-boned features of his father and the soft lips of his mother. Nordic blond hair hung to his shoulders. His eyes were his own.

He hated that he had become everything his father wanted. Ever since he was born he had been the project of his father, a means to fortune and glory. To the people of Skyrim he could be a hero and a saviour, but to Valakur he would only ever be a prize. He studied his hands closely. They were strong from training, but had few scars. The skin was smooth and almost unblemished.

He smashed his fists into the mirror and it shattered easily. Shards fell about his feet. When he regarded his hands again, Erik found deep cuts on the knuckles and smiled grimly. This body, and this mind, were his. He bound his injured hands.

Erik dressed in the fancy court clothes left out by his father and found them constrictive. He would dance and sing for the Jarl and his father, but only to help the people of Skyrim. It was his responsibility as the sole Dragonborn.

Unexpectedly, he was taken with a vision of a cloaked woman crouching alone in a forest. Her blue-green eyes glowed with a strange fire that pierced him. The vision slowly vanished and Erik was left motionless and shocked, stricken by an unexplainable urge.

"Dylarin!"

She spun around and smiled. Rune was just as she remembered, his hair ruffled and dark eyes mischievous. She ducked her head in greeting shyly. After her sudden departure the other day, she was glad he didn't seem angry.

"I'm sorry I left so suddenly yesterday. I had to come back and make sure you didn't despise me."

Rune laughed easily and took her arm. "I'm afraid you'll find me difficult to offend. Would you like to walk?"

"Yes, I would." Her arch tone amused him. He led her outside to the streets of Riften. They strolled amiably down the street, arm in arm, watching the crowd bustle around them. From the outside, Dylarin found their troubles inane. The country crumbled from war and burned from dragons, but domestic life continued.

"Rune, I'm leaving for Whiterun." The statement startled them both. Rune halted and looked at her closely. Silence grew between them.

"Any reason why?"

Dylarin sighed impatiently. "I came to Skyrim because I felt I had to. I don't have a reason for this urge either." The answer did not satisfy him, and she saw his jaw tighten.

"Dylarin, you like it here. I know you do. Why leave so soon?"

Letting out a sudden growl that shocked him, Dylarin pressed her hands to her temples. It took her a moment to calm herself.

"Have you ever felt something you cannot explain?"

"I knew I wanted to be a thief. Is that the same?"

"No." She took his arm and they continued walking. The guards were diligently watching over the marketplace, their eyes sharp for any thievery. One stopped to chat with a food vendor, and their laughter carried through the sunlit air. Dylarin watched closely, wanting to preserve the rare warmth of the moment. A few more words, and the guard continued on his way, called by his duty.

"Did you hear about Helgen?" Her question broke the silence and ushered in fear.

"How could I not? They might as well have called from the roofs, the way people's mouths were flapping."

Dylarin smiled slightly, but remained sober. "Rune, I feel that I must help in this. That there is something I must do." Her brow puckered. "I was not surprised when I heard of Helgen. I… expected it, almost."

Rune nodded slowly. "If you insist on this, I am coming with you." She glanced up at him, shocked, and he ruffled her hair with a grin. "You are new to Skyrim, and uneducated in the roughness of the wilds. I will not have you returned to Elsweyr in pieces."

Dylarin laughed merrily, and he marvelled at the clear sound. "Very well, you rascal. But if any of my valuables I'll know who to dunk in a lake."


End file.
